


The Human Touch 3

by TheFierceBeast



Series: The Human Touch [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addict Crowley, Anal Sex, Angst, Castiel is a very enthusiastic learner, Crowley is dynamite in bed, Deflowering, First Time, Human adjacent Crowley, I need to give them a happy ending, M/M, Rimming, Season/Series 09, Singing, Tattoos, all possible entendres intended, almost human crowley, crowstiel, look at their fucking love connection, sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:12:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4947973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Probably helpful but not necessary to read the first two parts first. This part set during 09:16/17 - Newly re-juiced Cas goes to visit Crowley one last time, finding him alone and totally strung out on blood. They talk, and stuff. There might be show tunes (there’s almost show tunes.)</p><p>"Castiel suddenly wants to give something back. Wants to give it all. Whispered secrets; some firsts, some onlys, some remember-me-by-this's. Only for a night, before circumstance makes enemies of them again."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Human Touch 3

“What the hell are you doing here?” is the first thing out of his mouth.

Castiel closes the door behind him with a quiet click. If the fact that it was unlocked was a warning sign, then the state of the room is a clanging alarm bell. Castiel frowns. “You were calling me. You're in trouble. I came.”

From his position, sprawled across the king size bed, Crowley looks genuinely confused. Although whether that’s through honest perplexion or whatever is lending that unnerving glassiness to his eyes, is debatable. “I didn't call you.” HIs eyes are too wide. Too honest. It’s unlike him. “I don't have your number. I'm not in trouble.”

“You’re not in trouble,” Castiel repeats. His eyes slowly scan the mundane carnage before him. Balled-up Kleenex, junk food wrappers, at least one empty Krug bottle and Hell only knows what else tangled in the 800-thread, sateen-weave, organic Egyptian cotton sheets. Lamp knocked from the nightstand and not replaced: in its stead lies an empty blood bag, although there’s no sign of the used hypodermic. His gaze settles on Crowley, who is now wearing an expression that Castiel recognises as shock. If he didn’t know better, he’d say that Crowley was cowering. And as he scrutinises, that expression seems to fall in on itself – what he’s heard people refer to as ‘the penny dropping’.

Crowley says, “Oh God. You're you.” His breath sounds shaky. “You've got your grace back. How have you got your grace back?” Bad enough that necessity force Castiel so low as to steal Theo’s grace, without having to see that look in Crowley’s so-very-human eyes. Castiel looks away. It’s watered-down now he’s regained his angelic status, as if felt through a fog of sedation, but having been once and so recently mortal, he can still feel. And this feeling isn’t triumph, or superiority. It’s shame. This feeling is regret. There’s an exhale of a laugh and he looks back to where Crowley is slumped now. “Well. Seems my humiliation is complete.” Crowley pushes a hand through his hair, leaves it sticking up in flyaway tufts. His laugh gains momentum, bitter and gasping.

“Your mind called to me.” It’s almost a plea, an apology for intruding on him when he’s like this. “Your… soul.” Crowley throws him a look like ‘oh my God, kill me’ and Castiel winces at his own choice of words. Tries to inflect some more emotion back into his voice, but it just sounds wrong now. Forced. “Why did you call me, Crowley?”

“I didn’t-” Crowley rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t a _call_. I was just… thinking of you...” Castiel looks at him, blankly. Crowley makes a suggestive little hand gesture, “ _Thinking_ of you, Christ, didn't being human teach you anything?”  
“Oh. _Oh_.” Crowley nods and Castiel can definitely pick up on the ‘ _yes, finally he gets it_ ’ in his expression. He clears his throat. Averts his eyes again.

“I missed you.” Crowley says.

Castiel’s head jerks up. “You didn't visit.”

“I was playing hard to get.” Crowley picks up a champagne flute from the pillow beside him, twirls it in his fingers and drops it again, his hand flopping to the sheets after it. The sigh he lets out screams of defeat. “I'm not any more.” He sounds… odd. ‘More’ has a strange inflection; almost American in its accent. His eyes are the worst part, though. They look… naked. Defenceless. It’s awkward and Castiel can’t put a name to all the feelings it rouses in him even in his state of grace. There’s a choke in Crowley’s voice when he says it: “Dear God, I _caught you up_. Look at me! Look at me… we were going to…” His laugh sounds almost like a sob. “Ah. Sod it.” That, perfectly British again. He tilts his chin up, tousled hair and rumpled silk robe, and he spreads his arms wide. “Angel, I still owe you and I assure you that even in this – _ha_ \- _unfortunate_ , state I'll be the best you've ever had.”

 _He was thinking about you_ , a little voice inside Castiel’s head whispers. _Thinking_ about you. This vessel has always been too attuned to his varying limits of emotional range and right now he can feel his cheekbones burning blush. He remembers it too well, on his knees in front of a red-eyed demon in the stock room of a small-town Gas n Sip. How did that happen? How did he do that? It seems unfathomable to contemplate now, the ease of it all, the human ease – simple as throwing yourself from a bridge. But oh, he remembers and he looks at the man – man! So very nearly mortal – lying on the bed in front of him, and his tongue feels suddenly stuck to the roof of his mouth and his voice sounds even rougher than usual when he gives the only decent reply. “I will not take advantage of you.” Then, eyes narrowed, “Why are you laughing?”

“You,” Crowley picks a piece of Kleenex out of the sheets and wipes at his eyes. “You're worried about taking advantage of the King of Hell?” He’s laughing properly now, with actual delight in it. “You're too precious.”

“You are inebriated.”

“Damn right I'm inebriated, Columbo. Do you think I'd be cracking onto you sober?”

He should be annoyed at that, but something in that sly glance tells Castiel that of course he’d be propositioning him, in any state. “You should sleep,” Castiel insists. His voice is level. His insides are a storm.

Crowley waves a dismissive hand. “I'm a bloody _human_ , aren’t I?” He pulls a face. “So this is what humans do. They make illogical decisions and humiliate themselves and cling to people they'd be better off erasing from the face of history. Remember?” His eyes are very dark. His eyes are very dark and his voice is rough silk and, irrationally, makes Castiel see colours and feel the hairs standing up on his forearms. Castiel swallows a lump in his throat.

“I remember.”

“But you'd rather not is that it? It's fine. I'm having a terrible day anyway, getting turned down by you won't compound it much.”

“It's not that.”

“Then come here.”

Crowley pats the mattress beside him. It looks… inviting. Castiel says, “It's not right,” even as he’s sitting down. He has to brush an empty Wine Gums packet aside to do it. Crowley pulls an appealing face and it’s very different from the faces he used to pull to try and charm his own way.

When he speaks, his voice is very low. “I'll get clean. I'll sort it out.” His hand smooths the sheets between them. Castiel stares at it, at manicured nails now bitten down. “Your pets haven't ruined me forever, believe you me, this is just a blip. This is the only time I'll be able to do this-” his breath hitches. The hand stops moving. His voice drops to almost inaudible. “Kiss me. I wanted to before but I couldn't. I couldn't.”

The words hit harder and deeper than any bullet could. Crowley’s voice; pleading. He’s dishevelled and bleary and breathless and a hair’s breadth from human and Castiel is an Angel of the Lord and he is above these trifles and yet he still sounds choked when he manages, “You're going to regret this in the morning.”

“I'm not myself, sweetheart. What's your excuse?”

“You owe me.”

“You sound like me.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Crowley lets out a sharp laugh. “I don’t know any more.” His shoulders are shaking. It takes Castiel a moment to realise that he’s not laughing any more, he’s silently crying.

What else can he do? Castiel inches closed the gap between them, drapes an arm across unresponsive shoulders. Slumped like this, Crowley seems much smaller than him. He tenses for a moment and then leans into the embrace and Castiel marvels at how much less awkward this feels than when he’s attempted physical contact before and it’s through some strange instinct that he drops a kiss onto the top of Crowley’s head. That prompts a stuttering change in breath that could be more tears, could be another laugh. Crowley says, “Tell me you've never thought about it.”

“I… perhaps.”

“Come _on_. Tell me.”

He feels so hot in Castiel’s arms. Fever hot, not just a human but a sick human – perhaps just the alcohol, though. Warm and solid. Something real to hold onto. Castiel says, “I can't.”

“So you _have_ thought about me.”

“Yes.” Even scraped raw by emotion, Crowley’s voice is still strangely soothing, a throaty purr. Castiel leans his cheek against the top of Crowley’s head. He wants to say it, but some residual human reticence keeps it tactfully in: _I can feel your soul. I can feel – so much. Do_ I _still have a soul, if I can still feel this way?_ _If this is sickness I don't want either of us to be cured. I want it to stay like this, simple and..._ “Crowley, are you… _singing_?”

Crowley giggles, a little hysterically. Carries on crooning under his breath “maybe the sun’s light will be dim, and it won’t matter anyhow...”

Castiel pulls away a little so he can look at him. His shoulders are still shaking. He seems to be laughing, and crying, and possibly hiccupping, simultaneously. It’s utterly perplexing. “Crowley, are you singing Angel of the Morning at me?”

He can practically feel his own aghast expression and evidently it looks as strange as it feels, because the laughter part of Crowley’s medley now seems to be winning. Crowley says, with effort, “It’s OK… it’s the PP Arnold version… I reckon I can still hit the high note.”

“That’s it. I’m going to procure you some coffee.”

A hand on his arm. “Cas, don’t. Stay.” Suddenly serious. Warily, Castiel settles back against the padded headboard. “When you leave, where will you go?”

“I was thinking of the deli on the corner…”

“Not for coffee, chucklehead. I mean… when you leave… this room… and…” He grimaces. Even Castiel can hear the unspoken _me._ “Will you go home?”

“Home?” His brows draw down into a frown.

Crowley says, “Back to heaven.”

“I cannot go back there.”

He doesn’t elaborate, but Crowley doesn’t ask. He just nods. His hand hasn’t moved from Castiel’s arm. “What was it like?” He glances up, sideways. His eyes, Castiel notes, are not dark as he’d thought them, but a clear, honey-coloured hazel. “Heaven?”

Castiel licks his lips, nervously. “It was… vast. Made of everyone. The parts I loved best… there were gardens, full of flowers. Insects. If I close my eyes, I can hear the hum of bees. I can recall the scent of flowers. Simple. So simple, peaceful.”

“Sounds nice.” Crowley’s voice is wistful. “I wish I could have seen it.”

“I could show you a little bit of heaven. If that’s what you want.”

“Dear God, did you just use a cheesy line on me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m proud of you. You’re more human than you think.”

He’s charming, dashing, suave and Castiel has his repertoire memorised: the smirk, the sneer, the grin, leer and snarl; crocodile smiles from a professional fixer. But never this. This is new. Castiel has never seen him smile, not really. Not this – perfect teeth and crinkled eyes, lashes lowered – and he’s not prepared for the sweetness of it and it knocks the breath from him. He’s observed humans, impassively, since Adam. They struck him always as beautiful, but they never moved him in this way until he joined, briefly, their ranks. Since then, he can’t un-feel it: the attraction, more than academic, more than aesthetic. His own vessel holds a new fascination for him; it’s strong and lithe, fine, beautiful. Humans call him ‘hot’ and he’d never understood why, before. This is the type of vessel his brothers and sisters favour – serviceable, appealing. But Crowley is different. Sturdier. Broad. Looking at him makes Castiel’s mouth fill with spit. Makes something flutter in his guts. Lower. This, he knows now, is physical desire and even though the edge of his emotions is dulled once more, he still finds it… pleasing. Still; “I wish I were still human.” He says it without thinking. It was more difficult, but easier. Things once seen that can’t be unseen, once felt, can’t be forgotten.

“Funny. I wish I wasn’t.” Crowley says. He sighs. “I'll get myself back. There's no reason not to now.”

“I'm sorry.” It twists in Castiel’s belly. “I wish things were different.”

“An angel makes a wish.” His head comes to rest again against Castiel’s shoulder. “Can't you just get rid of it?”

“If I did that, heaven would execute me. Excising your grace is a capital offense.”

“Since when were you afraid to have a price on your head.”

It’s not even a question: Crowley’s heart is clearly not in it, already accepting defeat. Castiel says, softly. “You know it could never work. They wouldn't let us.”

“I know.” Another sigh. “So you can't go back to heaven, but they won't let you be human. Huh. Pity you're not a demon. We do whatever we want.”

“Do you?”

Crowley turns to look at him and Castiel realises with a jolt how close their faces are. “When was the last time you just did what you fancied, angel? Was it when you were mortal?”  
  
And Castiel reaches out and touches him, gently, on the cheek, and he flinches as if expecting a strike. The light sparks in his hazel eyes. Castiel’s hand trails down his cheek. When he pushes the black silk robe from Crowley’s broad shoulders, Castiel doesn't expect to find him illustrated. It gives him a twinge of nostalgia for the inked angelic warding that was wiped from his ribs by the renewing fire of stolen grace. His own skin is perfect, no signs of use to show this vessel as his own: Jimmy had no distinguishing marks. Now he'll never age, never scar, never claim his own skin... It makes Castiel want to mark himself. It makes him wish himself human again all the more. Crowley is heavily tattooed, dragons twisting in jewel hues across his shoulders and chest and arms. Tattoos under the business suit - why does that make him seem more vulnerable than dangerous? Castiel knows it's meaningless; it's just his vessel, borrowed meat. But it's _him_. He chases the pictures with his tongue, as if they'll taste of colours and Crowley moans under his breath, fingers painfully gentle, circling in the hair behind Castiel’s ears. It's the element of surprise. Never knowing, and then you can't un-know: the slick and professional king with his immaculate three thousand dollar suits looks like a roadhouse rocker when you get him naked. These are their secrets, shared. Castiel suddenly wants to give something back. Wants to give it all. Whispered secrets; some firsts, some onlys, some remember-me-by-this's. Only for a night, before circumstance makes enemies of them again. They're both chained to their fate. But Castiel wants something lasting to recall this by; he wants Crowley to change him, forever.

“Your technique has… improved.” Crowley manages. He’s on his back, robe pushed to his elbows, sheets pushed to his knees, Castiel’s hand wrapped around his cock: the perfect picture of debauchery. Castiel smiles. The thrill of all that power, pliant beneath his hands.

“I’ve been practising.”

That smooth, unconcerned tone. “Is that so? Lucky boy. Anyone I know?”

“Alone.” Castiel growls. And Crowley’s face relaxes into undisguised relief, centuries of carefully contrived smirking poker-face fallen away in an instant. He’s the opposite of Castiel – open, naïve, genuine Cas – the burden of a guard that can never be allowed to slip, appearances that must be kept at all costs, is heavy indeed. But that guard is down now, all the way down, and the raw need in his eyes is a thousand times as naked as his bared skin. Castiel nods towards where his hand is moving. “Are they all this… daunting?”

A chuckle. “Cas. Such a sweet-talker. You make a girl blush.” For once, Crowley is not merely being facetious, a flush rising in his cheeks. “But you’re spoiling me. Isn’t it supposed to be your turn?”

His touch, like last time, is unexpectedly delicate, as if not quite sure of his permission. His lips at Castiel’s jaw, throat – one hand deftly pulling through his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, a blind afterthought, then slipping beneath the fabric to stroke his ribs, thumb brushing one nipple with a jolt Castiel feels like a tugged thread straight through his core. An undignified whine of a noise escapes him. “Don't be gentle. You don't have to be...”

Those careful lips, still at his throat. “I want to be. For once in my existence, I want to be.”

"But maybe I..." Castiel glances sideways at him "...need a firm hand?"

Crowley mutters something unrepeatable under his breath. The tugged thread feeling _snaps_. Pulling Castiel to him, his mouth is fierce. And he tastes of expensive champagne, sharp and sour and sweet all at once. The unfamiliar scour of too-long stubble, not quite grown to the softness of a beard. Yielding lips and bold tongue and fingers pushing through Castiel's hair, angling his head to his whim until Castiel can hardly catch a breath. His heart, he realises, is hammering. He places a palm against Crowley's chest and feels the same frantic rhythm.  
"I've been waiting years to get this damn thing off you" Crowley says, then he’s kissing him again, even as he’s pushing Castiel’s coat off his shoulders. And Castiel is shrugging, awkwardly, trying to wriggle the bunched up fabric over his wrists when Crowley pulls back.

“I shouldn’t be your first.” He says it like he really, really hopes he is.

“You're not. Well...” Why does he feel shy? “You're my first... male. I've had intercourse with a reaper. She seduced me and then tortured and killed me. I was lucky to survive.”

Crowley’s laugh at that sounds a little sad. “Reapers and demons. You have terrible taste, angel.”

“Reapers and demons have shown me the most kindness.”

Crowley shakes his head, slowly. Pulling him in, he kisses him again, slow and sweet. He seems to have made up his mind about something. He says, “I've not even begun to treat you right yet, love.”

And Castiel is overwhelmed. It's an onslaught, of adoring lips and experienced hands, stripping off his coat, shirt, pants, underwear, touching him in far more places at once than seems feasible, working him with unbearable skill which means it's approximately two minutes until Castiel begs, gasping, “Crowley, please... I can't... I'll...”

“Easy tiger. No rush.”

“I'm sorry. I'm not used to this.” He gives a little cough. “I don’t want it to be over too quickly.”

“I'm being selfish. Isn't that just like me?”

“What are you doing?”

“Shhh,” Crowley says, “turn over.”

His erection presses maddeningly against the smooth sheets, as he feels but can’t see Crowley straddle him. Feels the warm, heavy weight of Crowley’s cock and balls settle against his backside as he sits across the back of Castiel’s thighs. He’s not heavy; he’s bracing his weight, kneeling. His hands, starting at Castiel’s shoulders, are deft and soothing. It makes the inside of Castiel’s mouth feel… fuzzy. His head light. His limbs meltingly heavy. “We should have some oil for this. Oh well. God, you're gorgeous,” Crowley purrs and Castiel feels a flutter in his chest, embarrassment and pleasure and a strange kind of pride. “Delicious,” Crowley continues. His voice is a whiskey-steeped rumble. Hands kneading, working lower, he’s shifting down the bed on his knees, until  he runs both palms up the inside of Castiel’s thighs, spreading his legs, thumbs parting his cheeks, tongue... Castiel gives a broken cry, lifting his hips, hard-on slick against the mattress. “What do you want?” His words vibrate against Castiel’s skin, butterfly kisses brushed at the tender juncture of arse and thigh.

“I want everything.” He can barely get the words past his lips. His heart wants to jump out of his throat.

“Are you sure.”

“Yes.”

Crowley eases in with precise, careful slowness, his rough voiced curse trailing off into incoherent, groaned relief. And it's the hugest feeling. Full and precarious, teetering on the brink of discomfort and bliss, the strangest satisfaction, the zenith of closeness; two in one body.

“Does it hurt?” Crowley’s voice is part concerned anxiety, part pleasure-doused slur.

“Yes. It's good.” His words are panting exhales. Behind him Crowley moans, hips rocking gently, mouth wet and worshipful at his shoulders, his nape. When Castiel feels the sharp edge of teeth, he whimpers, presses back, harder, _harder_ and Crowley makes a noise low in his throat and his teeth become less gentle, his thrusts deeper, forceful. Is it imagination that makes Castiel see rising water when he closes his eyes? Rising grey-green water, cresting waves. He is gasping, like a drowning man. He cranes his neck awkwardly backwards.

“I want to look at you. I want to see your face.” And Crowley eases out, rolls him over, presses back in, all in one smooth motion. A hand braced against Castiel’s raised knee, holding him in place. His eyes, crazy, full of lust-adoration-fire, hair damp with sweat. Hips moving, relentless. He leans down, closing the space between their bodies. His lips are possessive. And just one touch has Castiel whimpering, spilling hot between them, and Crowley cries out and stiffens, hilt deep, and what he gasps in Castiel’s ear at that moment, Castiel is not even willing to admit to himself.

There’s a long, still moment, filled only with their silence. Crowley braces himself, on his forearms. Presses their foreheads together. He’s breathing very hard. Castiel isn’t sure why he does it, but he tilts his chin up and kisses the tip of Crowley’s nose, and Crowley exhales a little laugh. The extrication business is damp, and slightly awkward, but at least there’s a lot of tissues lying around the bed already. Leaning back against the pile of pillows, Crowley throws out an arm and Castiel doesn’t even have to think before settling against his chest. He feels… drowsy, which is strange, because he’s not so much as thought of sleep since regaining grace. He feels… sated. Calm. “You know, all those little personal pieces of heaven.” Crowley says, after a while. “If I'd not scuppered my chances of ending up upstairs before I was even out of short trousers... I think this would be mine. My heaven, with my angel.”

Castiel can't think of a reply. It seems like something he shouldn't have overheard, like Crowley is talking in his sleep. So he just tries to shift closer, feels Crowley gather him in tighter, protective or... _desperate_ his mind tells him. He tries to shut the thought out.

Maybe they sleep.

The light has certainly changed when Castiel drifts from his rest. He raises his head. Sits up. Thinks he should feel sore, but he doesn’t and that’s… he sighs. Beside him, Crowley stirs, turns over and blinks up at him. So mortal it’s alien. He says, “Stay.”

“I can’t”

“Of course you can. All you have to do is not leave.”

Castiel cocks his head. The sadness inside him; it’s muted, but it’s there. And it aches like absence. “It’s not that simple. You know it’s not.”

“Why not? It should be that simple.” Crowley gives a petulant frown. “It can be. Heaven can wait.” Then, he sighs. “I’ll lose you. You know the next time we meet, we won’t be the same people.”

“I know.”

“This part of me will be gone. You’ll hate me again.” His voice softens. “And I won’t care.”

“I know.”

“Cas…”

“Yes?”

He’s not looking at Castiel when he says it. “How can I be forgiven?”

“Just ask.” His voice is barely a whisper.

“I’m asking.”

“Say the words.”

Castiel hears Crowley’s throat click as he swallows. Pauses. Says, “Forgive me..?”

“I forgive you.”

“I guess that…that has to be enough.”

“It’s enough. I promise.”

“I’m going to close my eyes now,” Crowley folds his hands in his lap. Looks down at them. “And when I open them, you’ll be gone.” He closes his eyes. Sitting up in bed, wrapped in the sheets. Castiel can’t look back. He closes the door silently behind him, and feels his heart rend.

**Author's Note:**

> Cos you know Cas would be every shade of sweet and clueless and enthusiastic, and Crowley would be absolute smokin' dynamite in the sack.  
> This turned out kinda more depressing than I anticipated. I just want them to run away and be happy tbh but whilst they're actually not that different, I can't see circumstances allowing. Maybe there could be an intervention at some point that frees them from their respective fates for an infinite future of quiet companiable reading by the fire and long walks and art galleries :p
> 
> I feel mildly gross that I included tattoos when Crowley never actually shows enough skin to see them (dammit!) so it could be I've just appropriated an actor thing as a character thing. But tattoos completely concealed under a business suit is kinda a THING of mine so I couldn't resist (do not even get me onto that priest outfit in the S11 trailer... I have deep seated issues!!)
> 
> Finally, if anyone wants to discuss these two then please leave your musings in the comments box here because I'm going nuts from this ship! (New season tomorrow, woohoo - I shall be madly trying to avoid spoilers until I can watch it!)


End file.
